


Fools Rush In

by princessofmind



Series: That boy is a problem [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It leaves you feeling listless, and unfocused, like wandering through some thick fog where you occasionally run into other people by chance before being tossed back out into the haze.  And maybe that’s why the desperation gripped you so hard, had you slipping out the back of the school and climbing over the gate and walking all the way to the public school.  It’s hot, almost oppressively so, and your shirt is sticking to your back and your hair is matted with sweat, but while your appearance would usually be your highest concern, you can’t even muster the ire to be peeved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fools Rush In

Sometimes, Sollux would text you about things that weren’t sex.

Most of the time, they just exchanged short quips and simplified hook-up requests simply comprised of a time and place, followed by a question mark. A simple yes or no was all that was required in response, and this was the kind of interaction that you were used to. Nothing personal, just tossing a suggestion into the breeze to see if anyone would bite, and more often than not, Sollux was biting within five minutes, which was more than flattering.

It was the other stuff that caught you off guard.

Like how every so often, you’d be laying in bed or soaking in the tub or at a party, and you’d get a message from him asking how your day was going. How you’d done on that test you’d mentioned in passing the last time you saw each other in person. If you’d gotten the cold that was going around. And it always made your throat feel uncomfortably tight, a painful sensation tugging at your heart and sending unwarrented warmth surging all the way down to your fingertips. But it was scary, in the way missing a step on the stairs was, and more often than not, you’d delete the messages without a response.

Each time, you expect him to get frustrated, to ignore you in return. But he’s never anything less than eager to meet you whenever, wherever you want, no matter if he has to sneak out of the school or his own house. You find yourself pushing harder, blatantly ignoring any text he sends your way and demanding he come meet you at two in the morning on a school night. Because you want to push him, you want to make him leave you alone and never smile in that way that makes your knees weak or cup your face so tenderly when he kisses you. He scares you more than anyone you’ve ever met, and you just want to go back to feeling empty and numb and half-drunk all the time. This feels too real, too raw.

But you’re addicted to him, even more than the booze or drugs or sex, and you feel yourself slipping on the precipice of something desperately important, some deep, hot feeling that you’ve locked away since your parents died. So you keep pushing and shoving desperately, trying to make him hurt you, get mad at you, get sick of your shit, but it still hasn’t happened.

It leaves you feeling listless, and unfocused, like wandering through some thick fog where you occasionally run into other people by chance before being tossed back out into the haze. And maybe that’s why the desperation gripped you so hard, had you slipping out the back of the school and climbing over the gate and walking all the way to the public school. It’s hot, almost oppressively so, and your shirt is sticking to your back and your hair is matted with sweat, but while your appearance would usually be your highest concern, you can’t even muster the ire to be peeved.

School has already been dismissed by the time you reach the prison-like concrete structure, and a few gothic-looking kids smoking in the parking lot tell you that “Captor got detention for cutting class again, the fucking idiot”, so you just make your way into the building like you belong and no one even considers questioning you. It’s cold inside, and your damp clothes make you chilly so quickly it makes you nauseous as you wander the hallways and peek into half-open doors and tiny windows that let you peer into the lives of ordinary, unimportant school children. There’s nothing special about them; their clothing is unimpressive, their posture is slouched, and they walk in small clusters like sheep. Does Sollux feel like this when he comes to your school? So far out of his element that it doesn’t even feel like he’s part of the same species as everyone else?

He’s sitting in one of the classrooms towards the front, slumped back in the unforgiving plastic seat with eyes glazed with boredom fixated on the book laying open on his desk. Seeing him there, shirt too tight over his bony chest and his thumbnail caught between his teeth, the red tips of his hair starting to fade into the black like a passing thought, makes that unwelcome warm feeling start to bubble in your chest like tar.

When you were little, young and hopeful and bright-eyed and unstained by the world, you read books about this feeling. About how it was the most wonderful thing on the planet, something that people dreamed about and spent their lives chasing, and if you were lucky, really lucky, you’d find someone who felt the same way. It was supposed to make your life feel like a dream, like nothing could go wrong, and everything was perfect.

But instead, it felt like you were drowning, like you’d been walking along the street one day and were suddenly plunged underwater, ice filling your lungs and your legs tangled uselessly in seaweed to keep you submerged. This feeling wasn’t real, it wasn’t something you were ever supposed to experience or want, and it was foolish and childish for you to even consider it now. You just wanted to put your fingers in your ears and close your eyes and tell the you from that party to never look twice at the boy on the couch, to not let him touch you like you were a person and not an object, to keep him from trying so _fucking hard_ to care about you despite how you’ve done everything in your power to keep him from it.

Sollux sees you standing there, shivering in the air conditioning like you’ve been caught in a snowstorm, and he says something to the teacher sitting at the front of the classroom before coming over and slipping outside. “Hey,” he says, and it’s like every time you see him, his voice has dropped just a little bit more in pitch. “You okay?”

And this is a perfectly acceptable question to ask, considering you’ve never once set foot in the public school, and you didn’t even give him a warning that you were coming. There’s a furrow to his brow as he reaches out and brushes your cheek with his fingers. “Jesus, you’re freezing. How is that even possible? It’s like, eighty-five fucking degrees outside.”

“Can we go somewhere?” you ask around the lump that has lodged itself firmly in your throat. It’s been two weeks since you so much as spoke to him, but he acts like it was just a few days.

Months ago, the suggestion would have made him blush all the way down his neck, but now, the color just bleeds into his ears and cheeks. There’s something just as attractive to you about his growing experience as there was about his virginity, which again, wasn’t something you were expecting given your track record. But thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about the weird tone of your voice; he just takes your hand (carefully, like your fingers are spun sugar and liable to break with the slightest pressure) and leads you back down the hallway you entered in, but further past the lobby and into the gym.

It must be the off season, because there’s no one there, and without any windows in the space, the flickering lights overhead prompt you to walk faster until the two of you are tucked safely away in the locker room. The lights there aren’t as scary, and for as run-down as the rest of the school looks, it’s obvious that this is a public school since the sports recreational areas are better maintained than the classrooms are. Everything feels bleached white and clean, something that soothes some of the nameless panic that was tugging at the cuffs of your trousers all day.

Sollux’s hand is so warm in your own, you’re hesitant to let it go, but maybe for this reason you waste no time in stepping away from him, stripping off your blazer and letting it fall in a messy heap on the tiles, followed by your tie and then your button-up.

“What are you doing?” he asks, even though you think it’s pretty obvious what you’re doing. Each article of clothing is like a breadcrumb leading towards the showers, and by the time you’ve stripped off your boxer-briefs right in front of the shower, he’s followed you with a look of reverence painted in broad strokes across his face.

And you weren’t expecting him to stare so openly, so hungrily. You’re unhealthily thin from drinking too much and eating too little, there are burns on your arms and thighs from when you’d try to smoke when you were too drunk to even stay upright and ended up letting the ashes smolder mindlessly on your skin. There’s nothing beautiful about how you can see your veins through your paper-pale skin, or how your eyes are always bloodshot no matter how much sleep you manage to get. It’s easy to hide under your clothes and perfectly done hair, but this is everything you try to avoid every morning when you get dressed for school. This is the reason why you only ever have sex with your clothes on, pulling your pants down far enough to get your dick out and absolutely no further.

But there’s no hiding now, and he’s silent as he strips off his own clothes (and he’s skinny too, but with thin muscles like cables shifting under his skin and god, he’s gorgeous), pulling you to him without hesitation and kissing your skin like you taste like sugar instead of sweat. It makes you shudder, from the top of your head to your curled toes, to feel his hands cautiously exploring every inch that you’ve bared to him, from your chest to your stomach to the sharp lines of your hips and back up again.

You pull away, but only to turn on the shower, the water heating up admirably fast so that you aren’t waiting long to step inside and let the steam curl deliciously in your lungs. Sollux stands so that your back is to the water, letting it chase away the chill from the air conditioning as he rests his forehead against yours, your bodies pressed close together and his arms securely around your waist. And he seems to be just drinking in the feel of you against him, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t grind his growing erection against your hips; just holds you there, breathing the same air, occasionally tasting your lips.

It makes you feel like the center of his world.

It scares the shit out of you.

Taking a few steps back, you end up with your back to the wall, his weight warm as it presses you against the chilly tiles. But that’s what it takes to move his kisses from wondrous to hungry, tongue pressing between your lips as one hand grips your hip, the other tangling in the damp mess the water has made of your hair. And while this is more familiar territory, the lack of clothing and the water slicking between your bodies makes it feel wrenchingly intimate, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he nibbles on your bottom lip.

Pleasure pools in your stomach, but it builds slowly, leisurely, like your body doesn’t care that you’re in the shower of a public school. And gradually, the rest of you stops caring as well, and the only thing your sluggish mind can focus on is the way his hips twitch absently to rub his dick against yours, his breath catching in his throat and his soft sounds of pleasure lingering in your mouth. You love feeling the way his breath puffs hot against your cheek as it escapes through his nose, and how his thumb strokes in idle circles behind your ear in a way that makes you feel positively boneless and weak at the knees.

When you met him, you were the one taking him apart with your lips and fingers, reducing him to a trembling wreck against the door in a house that didn’t belong to either of you. But now, he’s the one making you shake, thighs quivering and hips fighting to roll up against his own grinding motions despite the hand holding you against the wall, gentle yet firm. It’s like he’s preventing you from driving the encounter, from making it hot and heavy and fast and dirty, like always. Held against the moisture-slick tiles by his body and his hands, you have little choice but to surrender to the sensations, let him set the pace and lead the kisses.

And oh, how you love his kisses. So many of the boys you’ve been with would much rather have your mouth on other parts of their anatomy, but Sollux kisses like he could do nothing else for a whole day and be satisfied. He kisses like he can taste your soul there, like the truth of everything you are lies between your palate and tongue, behind your teeth and lips. It’s unhurried, but deep, each motion savored and not a second wasted.

He kisses you until you want to cry from it, until it makes your soul feel bruised and your toes are curling uselessly in the water as you tremble against him, the heat in your abdomen spreading and twisting. You want to worry about him, take care of him first, because in the entire time you’ve been messing around, you’ve never orgasmed before him. And you can’t decide if it’s because that’s the way things have always been, or if it’s because you care that much about making him feel good. But it’s going to be different today, you can already tell; you’re panting, barely able to keep it together long enough to tear your lips from his to suck in a desperate gasp of warm, muggy air, and you can feel his eyes taking your face in, the water running in rivulets down your chest, the way your hair is curling wetly around your face and how your skin is flushed red from the heat of the water.

And you just weren’t made to handle this kind of undivided attention, not in the genuine, _good_ way he’s looking at you, and you moan his name helplessly as you coat both of your stomachs with your release. Before you can even begin to shake off the pleasurable tremors, wade your way out of the soupy mix that makes up your post-coital brain state to try and finish him off yourself, he’s gone as well, adding to the mess on your skin and ducking his head against your shoulder with a low, almost growled sound of muffled pleasure.

For a moment, you don’t know what to do with your body. Everything feels disconnected in a pleasant way that reminds you of white noise and static. Using soap from the dispenser set in the wall, Sollux cleans you, lingering on your concave stomach and hips before washing himself off as well, disappearing only briefly to retrieve a couple of sorry looking towels from the supply closet. You get the distinct impression that he’d dry you off, if you let him, so you take one of the towels and scrub yourself dry quickly (even though it makes your skin smart), picking up your clothes and dressing quickly, like your nudity is indecent now in the wake of what just happened.

“You planning to go back to school, or home from here?” he asks as you pull the last of your clothing on, fishing your box of cigarettes from the pocket of your blazer and lighting one with shaky hands (you don’t care if there’s no smoking in the building, you’re technically breaking into a public school and engaging in sexual activity after hours, so a cigarette is the least of your concerns).

And you don’t know why, but the concern you can barely here in his voice squeezes your bruised heart until it pops like a grape. It was so easy, when it was just sex. When he was just the hot gothic kid from public school who worshipped you like a god, who got off to the same kind of shit as you did. But somewhere along the way, maybe even from the beginning, he started _caring_ about you. And at this point in your miserable life, you’re not used to people giving a shit. So it hurts, like someone kept in the dark for too long being blinded by the sun, and all you want to do is go back to where it’s familiar, where you won’t get hurt or hurt him.

“Please don’t text me anymore,” you say, the smoke in your lungs stabbing like needles. “You should get a real girlfriend, cut this shit out.”

“What?” he asks from behind you, clearly struggling to get his clothes on quickly so he isn’t having this conversation naked. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Nowhere,” you say with a dismissive gesture with your unoccupied hand. “I’m just bored. It feels too much like I’m being tied down, and that’s not what I signed up for.”

The lies taste putrid in the back of your throat, like bile, and it’s made even worse at the transparent anger and hurt in his voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, should I not treat you like a decent fucking human being? Is that too clingy for you?”

“Yeah, it actually fuckin’ is,” you snap in return, raking a hand through your still-wet hair and barking out a sorry excuse for a laugh. “I don’t need you checkin’ up on me an’ actin’ like a jaded housewife all the time. Just leave me alone. It’s been fun, but I think I need to move on.”

“Why are you being such an asshole?” he asks, tone caught between anger and desperation. “I thought-”

“Yeah, well, that was your first mistake,” you say nastily. “Cause clearly, you thought wrong.” The cigarette is already down to the filter, and you drop the butt on the floor, grinding it into ash with the toe of your shoe. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

And the door wasn’t this heavy, when you entered the locker room, but it feels like a thousand pounds pressing against you when you leave. It isn’t until it’s closed behind you, and the metal and brick and shitty cheap paint are separating the two of you that he speaks again, barely a whisper but carrying enough emotion to be a bullet tearing through your chest.

“But I love you.”

And that was his second mistake.

Everyone knows that love isn’t real.


End file.
